Sinner
by darklydreamingdoctor
Summary: More than three years after Reid is abducted by Tobias Hankel, he disappears from his apartment. His kidnapper, a long-time fan of Raphael's violent videos, will prove to be far worse than his predecessor. The BAU races to recover their youngest before time runs out, but the damage done may be irreparable.
1. Valentines' Day

It was February 14, 2010. Valentines' Day. It was also the first Valentines' that any of the BAU could remember without a case. They had just wrapped up a local consultation and the paperwork was so light that they were all out of the building by 5 pm, and so the elevator ride to the lobby was raucous. Everyone was in a good mood. It had been weeks since any of them had even been home in time for dinner, let alone an evening with their families, and as they wished each other a happy Valentines' and walked to their own cars, all of them were smiling.

The day had started its usual way- that is to say, they all were anticipating a relaxing (or in some cases, romantic) Sunday, and were of course called in relatively early in the morning. But the case was in the area, and mostly solved; they were only asked to assist with interrogations, which had taken several hours, and then file their reports on the proceedings. As they left that evening, even Hotch looked happy, and he told them all to get some rest and to sleep in the next day (serial killers and kidnappers providing). He pocketed his phone.

* * *

Reid was relatively quiet in the elevator. It wasn't out of embarrassment or anything; he simply had nothing to add to a conversation about Valentines' dates, as he had none, and so he smiled crookedly and headed to his car. Nobody asked about his plans, although Morgan likely would have made a few jokes if they knew that he was on his way to a symphony ( _The Sounds of Space: A Star Wars/Star Trek Medley_ ), alone. He had invited Prentiss, knowing she didn't have plans either, but she said something about having a standing date with a bottle of aged whiskey at her favorite bar. Rossi had declined, too- he had simply stared at Reid for a moment, his eyes amiable but squinting, and then walked away. Reid thought he heard him muttering 'unbelievable' as he left.

He had thought about asking Hotch. It would be his first Valentines' since Haley died, but he would undoubtedly want to spend that time with Jack, and so Reid walked to his car alone.

The symphony was nice, as usual. He had booked seats in the back, because he liked sitting in the dark, away from the larger, louder crowds. The amphitheater was pleasantly empty and Reid settled into the seatback, closing his eyes but twitching his fingers delicately in time to the music.

It was early when he got home- a little after 11, but it had been a long week, and he was suddenly exhausted. He fumbled for the light switch, yawning as he locked the door.

A warm glow flooded from the lamp and Reid froze. His books, which he usually kept organized by category on the shelves, were scattered across the floor. One hand drifted to his gun as he surveyed the room, his heartbeat hammering in his chest. There were splashes of something dark on the wood floor, and he followed them now, steadying his breath when he observed that the edges of the puddles were a deep crimson. The path trailed through the living room and into his bedroom. Involuntarily his hands flew to his mouth, and from under them escaped a horrified moan.

"No... No, that's not... That's not possible, it's not... It's..."

With shaking hands he pulled his phone from his bag and began to dial.

* * *

 _ **11:08 PM**_

 _Aaron and Jack Hotchner are both in the master bed, asleep, their arms neatly and unintentionally folded in the exact same position. They had cooked dinner together- homemade macaroni, Jack's favorite, with sugar cookies for dessert. They'd iced them, peppering them with red hearts and sprinkles; little Jack had made one for his mother, too. The cookies were especially messy and Hotch had left his jacket hanging over the kitchen chair, trading it for one of Haley's old aprons. And for the first time in a while, Hotch went to bed without plugging his phone into the charger next to him. It buzzes in his coat pocket in the kitchen, silent, and Hotch shifts in his sleep._

 ** _11:10 PM_**

 _Derek Morgan's hand snakes around the woman's waist and she slaps it away playfully. "Derek, how are we supposed to get dinner if you won't let me get dressed?"_

 _He pauses, looks her over, and slowly bites his lip, his eyes sparkling. "There's plenty to eat here, baby," he smirks, and she shoves him again, but relents and slides into his lap. He had met this one at a bar a couple of weeks back, and she was gorgeous. He kisses her, first on her lips, then sliding down to her neck, and then a little further down..._

 _His phone rings from the kitchen. It isn't on full volume, and the sound goes unnoticed as Morgan misses yet another dinner reservation._

 ** _11:10 PM_**

 _Emily Prentiss takes a slow sip, watching the man across the bar who had been giving her 'fuck-me' eyes for the last 20 minutes. He signals to the bartender to refill her whiskey and she smiles coyly at him. He's cute enough. Tall. Dark hair. And as he crosses the room to sit next to her she catches a whiff of expensive cologne._

 _"I don't even want to ask," the man says, giving her a smirk that was just self-confident enough to be sexy. "But I have to. There has to be a damn good reason a woman as beautiful as you is at a bar alone on Valentines' Day."_

 _"You've been watching me," Prentiss observes, raising an eyebrow and wiping the condensation from her glass._

 _"Mm. I've been... postulating," he says, waving his hand in a movement that belied a slight drunkenness, "and I have come to the conclusion that you..."_

 _"Should give you my number?" Prentiss laughs. He might have been witty a couple of drinks ago but he now he was adorable, and it_ was _Valentines', after all._

 _"Call me." He's grinning, reciting his number, and he makes Emily dial it into her phone and call him so he could have her number, too. She holds the phone out to show him that the line is ringing, and so she doesn't hear the tone notifying her that another call is trying to come through._

 _ **11:12 PM**_

 _Penelope Garcia and Kevin Lynch are sitting on the floor against the sofa. The table in front of them is laden with the remnants of a feast Garcia had cooked herself, and on the TV_ Dune _had been playing for several hours._

 _Kevin walks into the kitchen, checking over his shoulder that Garcia isn't watching, and pulls a can of Reddi-Whip from the fridge. He notices that her cellphone was ringing, where it had been left on the counter, and thinking it to be Hotch, his heart falls. He picks it up and sees the caller ID- Boy Genius, and a wave of relief washes over him. Reid often called Garcia when he was watching Doctor Who, but Kevin figures he would understand if Garcia didn't pick up on this particular evening. He silences the phone and walks back into the living room with his whipped cream, humming cheerfully._

 ** _11:13 PM_**

 _Jennifer Jareau and Will LaMontagne have put Henry to bed. He is a little older than a year, now, and both parents felt like they hadn't had any "alone time" since he was born. They hide under the sheets like teenagers, laughing and murmuring in hushed voices. Their hands are longing, eager; both have been looking forward to an opportunity like this, and in preparation JJ silenced her phone before sliding into bed with Will. She told herself she would turn the volume back on after, in case Hotch called with a case, but she fell asleep with her head buried in Will's chest. If she had remembered, she would have seen the single notification- a missed call from Spencer Reid._

 _ **11:15 PM** _

_David Rossi, like Prentiss, is celebrating his Valentines' with a bottle- only his is Scotch, and far more expensive than Prentiss's bar could afford to stock. He savors it as he stares into the fireplace, the ghost of a cigar still lingering in the air. Jazz is playing softly, and there is a knock at the door. Rossi stands, straightens his shirt, and leaves the room to let Erin Strauss in. His phone, left by his half-empty glass, buzzes once, twice, and then is silent._


	2. The Morning After

Perhaps more rare than getting home early on Valentines', Hotch mused, was waking the next morning without a case. It was 8:30 AM- late for him, but normal on a day when all they had to do was paperwork. He sent out a mass text telling the team that they didn't have to come in until 9, and then he noticed the missed call notification. He debated calling Reid back, but decided against it. He would ask what Reid had wanted when he came in for work in half an hour.

The team began to trickle in accordance, it seemed, with the night they had had. Rossi was first, humming a little ditty and winking at Hotch before disappearing into his office around 8:50. JJ was next at 9:00 on the dot. She looked younger than she had in a long time, and Hotch made a note to himself to be more adamant about required vacation days. Morgan followed a few minutes later, looking somewhat smug, and with a hint of lipstick on his collar.

Garcia and Prentiss came in together around 9:30, each with a large cup of coffee in their hands. Garcia looked somewhat better than Prentiss; she apologized profusely for being late, giving some excuse about an alarm clock, but Hotch noticed with some amusement that her eyes never seemed to meet his as she spoke. Prentiss only offered a low grunt and retreated to her desk, sporting a pair of extremely dark glasses.

It was 9:45 now and Reid still had not arrived.

Hotch watched the bullpen from his desk, his frown deepening as the morning progressed. It was unlike Reid to be late, unlike him to not give word, and suddenly Hotch remembered the phone call. He pulled out his cell and listened to the ringtone, and grew suddenly and unshakably frightened. Reid did not answer.

"Has anyone heard from Reid?" He leaned into the hallway, trying to keep his voice calm, but as he watched everyone's eyes widen he knew that something was wrong.

"He called me last night," JJ said slowly. "My phone was off, and he didn't leave a message, so I thought..."

"He called me, too," Derek looked from Hotch to JJ, and then stood as Rossi emerged with his phone in his hand.

"I was... occupied," he said lightly.

"I don't think-" Prentiss was looking down at her cell and she stopped abruptly, her hand rising to her jaw. "Oh, God."

"He didn't answer when I called a few minutes ago," Hotch said. "I'm sure there's a reason. Maybe he was drinking, and-"

"Hotch, come on. This is Reid we're talking about," Derek shook his head incredulously. "Knowing him, he was probably playing with a damn Rubik's cube all night, or-"

"He went to the symphony," Prentiss said, her voice soft, almost a whisper. "He asked me to go."

"Sir, would it be all right if I swung by his apartment?" JJ stood. "I'm sure everything's fine, I just..." she trailed off and Hotch nodded.

* * *

Prentiss had volunteered to go with JJ, picking her nails the entire way there.

"He's fine, Emily," JJ took her eyes from the road briefly to give her a smile. "Probably missed his alarm."

"Yeah," Prentiss forced a laugh, realized she was picking her nails, and started twisting at the band of her coffee cup instead.

They walked up the stairs quietly, and paused a minute before knocking. Neither woman wanted to tell the other that she had a terrible feeling and so they stood in the landing, waiting.

Finally Prentiss leaned forward to knock on the door, and it gave under her hand. The apartment was dark, silent, and above all, empty.

"Reid?" JJ called, and she was on her way to open a window across the room when she stumbled over something on the ground. It was Reid's messenger bag. As her eyes adjusted to the dark she saw his phone, not far from his bag, the screen shattered. And everywhere she looked, there were pools of blood.

She turned, about to call out to Prentiss, but Prentiss was staring somewhere past her, her coffee cup dropping from her hands.

* * *

 _A/N: I know I probably made some promises to you guys about regular updates. And I fully intended to keep those promises. And then my second year of architecture started, and I am not exaggerating in the slightest when I say that this is the first 'free time' I've had in two weeks (and I really do have homework I should be doing, but anyways...). The point is- I will do my very very best to update semi-regularly, but there will be some dry spells. Just be patient and I won't let you down._


	3. Archangel

"He's in trouble, Hotch," JJ was already talking before he had even picked up the phone. He could hear the roar of the Suburban in the background and he guessed that she was pushing 90. "CSI is already en route."

"CSI?" His mouth felt dry. "There's a crime scene?"

"He isn't there, but..." Her voice up until then had been rigid, professional. Now it wavered. "Something happened. Someone... There was blood, and we can't know whether or not it's his until..." There was a soft sound- a muffled cry, and then she seemingly collected herself. "Gather the team. We'll be there in 10."

* * *

They were all sitting around the table when Prentiss and JJ arrived, silent. Reid's seat, of course, was empty.

"From what we could tell, this, ah..." JJ stopped and cleared her throat as her fingers moved over the face of her tablet, and an image appeared on the large viewing screen behind her. "This was on the wall in his apartment. We think it was there when he got home, which was when he tried calling us. And then someone..."

"What the hell?" Derek leaned forward in his seat.

The photo was of Reid's bedroom wall, the one visible from the hallway. In huge, crudely painted letters were three words, and they were written in a crimson so dark it was almost black.

 _Confess your sins._

* * *

 _Wake up. Pay attention. Where are you? Who has you? How many, and are they armed?_

He'd been under for too long, far too long, but he couldn't seem to open his eyes. There were flashes- a face with teeth that gleamed in a terrible smile, light, dark, neon. And he heard bursts of sound, too, but everything was blurred and it echoed and the headache, _God_ , the headache was going to tear him apart. With every pulse of his heart he thought he might throw up. And then there was dark, complete dark and for a little while, he slept.

The lights that woke him were artificial and so any amount of time could have passed. They were muted by a thin veil over his eyes- burlap, perhaps, but he could still make out the room beyond him through the material. He was alone save for the unmistakable outline of a video camera set on a tripod. His breath hitched in his throat and he fought not to hyperventilate, biting back a scream. There was no use in panicking.

 _Think._

He had come home after the symphony. Seen the message on the wall. And he had panicked then, too, trying everyone's cell instead of getting the hell out and calling 9-11. He hadn't even known anyone was in the apartment until someone had hit him from behind, and they had hit him hard.

The headache was less intense now than it had been earlier but he recognized the symptoms of a concussion. He needed a doctor. He wanted to lie down, to sleep for a while. That would help, surely.

 _Focus._

The space he was in was maybe 20 feet square, and the walls were rough stone; not built, but carved. Underground, then.

 _A mine shaft?_

Against the far wall he could see a blinking lights of a hulking computer array, and if he listened closely, he could hear the buzz of a generator somewhere out of view. It sounded like it was behind him, deeply muffled. He tried to turn but his shoulders flared in protest, and gingerly, he craned his neck upwards. He was upright, suspended by a pair of shackles about his wrists.

There was a harsh noise behind him and the sound of the generator at first grew louder, and then more quiet. A door. And now there were footsteps, slow, measured.

"And the Lord said to Raphael, 'Bind Azazel hand and foot, and cast him into the darkness, and make an opening in the desert, and cast him therein. And place upon him rough and jagged rocks, and cover him with darkness, and let him abide there for ever, and cover his face that he may not see light. And on the day of the great judgement he shall be cast into the fire.'"

"The Book of Enoch," Reid said. The speaker was still somewhere behind him. "Please, I think-"

"Be silent," the man said, and he was bending over the video camera, turning it on. At the same moment the computer monitors flared to life. Although Reid couldn't make it out, every screen except one became covered with scrolling lines of code, incredibly complex systems tying together to send video data to a single receiving server. He could, however, see the biggest monitor. It showed the feed coming from the camcorder.

"Who are you?" Reid asked, hating how scared his voice sounded, but he couldn't help it. Memories were flooding his mind now, memories of Tobias and of Charles, and of Raphael.

"I am Michael," the man said, and he moved slightly so that the camera had an unfettered view of his captive. The red recording light blinked merrily. "Are you ready to confess?"


	4. Home Videos

Hotch had never seen Morgan move so fast in his life, and he had watched him tackle at least a dozen unsubs.

They were mostly quiet, staring at the photo on the viewing screen, and then Garcia had screamed. Everyone was startled into a moment of inaction but Derek was out of his seat and through the door before anyone else even understood what had happened.

They caught up with Morgan quickly. He was standing stock-still in the doorway of Garcia's office and Hotch, the last to leave the table, couldn't see past the others to discern what was going on. Garcia had stopped screaming but she was sobbing now, her wails soft and agonizing.

Why wasn't Morgan comforting her?

And then someone shifted and past their shoulder Hotch saw the computer screens and he felt something in his chest plummet. It was Reid.

On every monitor was projected the same feed, and the realist in him hoped that it was live, because that would mean that whoever had Reid hadn't killed him yet. The father in him, however, was aching. Reid was so small. Young. And that he should have to go through the same horror twice...

The sense of deja vu was striking. His hair was a little shorter now, but it was matted with blood, just like last time. He was bound, just like last time. And he was terrified, just like last time. It was this last that worried Hotch the most, though. Reid looked scared, but there was something else in his expression, something that all of them could see in high-definition. It was almost like apathy, something dark and tired and more frightening than the crimson painting half of his face. It looked to Hotch like resignation.

"State your name," someone said, just off screen.

"Spencer Reid."

Suddenly, without warning, a fist snaked past the camera and Reid swayed from where he hung, his head lowered, his body trembling. Garcia cried out and it was Prentiss, not Morgan, who moved to comfort her.

"Your _name_ ," the man said, and now they could all see him on the camera. He was tall- over 6 feet, and solidly built. Caucasian. Unremarkable and, thus far, unidentifiable.

"Spencer Geoffrey Reid," he amended, and his voice had taken on the higher octave which the team had grown to recognize as a sign of fear or anxiety. "A-After Chaucer. My mom-"

" _Tell me your name!"_ His captor was shouting and Reid turned his face away, cringing, and Hotch caught a glimpse of Morgan's knuckles branded white against the doorframe. " _I know who you are, so **tell me your name!"  
**_

His body was between the camera and Reid now but they could hear the chains overhead rattling desperately. Just as suddenly, his anger seemed to abate. He stepped back, still on-screen, only now he turned to face the monitors. Behind him, Reid was deadly silent.

"Is he dead? Oh, God, is he dead?" Garcia was moaning into her hands and Hotch stared at the screen, not daring even to blink, watching the thin chest for movement. He noticed that Reid, as usual, had worn a themed sweater vest; the red Valentines patch by his collar was lurid, mocking.

"I know what you are, all of you," Michael said, now so close to the camera that he had to bend down to stay in the frame. "You caught Raphael by surprise, and destroyed him. But not me." He was smiling, a tight and morbid grin. "'Even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light. So it is no surprise if his servants, also, disguise themselves as servants of righteousness.' And when I know your names, I will cast you out. One by one. Starting with the one that killed Raphael."

Just below the stupid, gaudy embroidered heart, there was a movement so slight it might have been a trick of the light, or a draft. But it happened again a few moments later.

"He's alive," Hotch said, and his words sounded cold and calculating to his own ears even though his eyes were burning.

"Yeah, but for how long?" Morgan finally spoke, and Garcia turned back to look at him. Her mascara was a mess and the vibrant pink of her lipstick was pulled down as her chin began to quiver.

"Derek-"

He punched the doorframe suddenly, violently, and everyone jumped as the adjacent wall reverberated. " _Fuck!"_

And then he was gone, charging down the hallway, and Prentiss ran out after him. JJ knelt next to Garcia, grabbing one of her hands.

"He's going to be okay," she said, and she forced a smile.

"Why didn't he call me?" Garcia's head tilted, like a child, and her face crumpled as she lapsed back into tears. "Why..?"

As JJ hugged Garcia, trying her best to console the analyst, Rossi turned to Hotch. Normally so amiable, he now looked drained and old.

"Who's Raphael?"


	5. Galatians 6:17

Reid watched the red light on the camera. Everything else in the room was blurry, fading in and out of focus, but the light was always there.

"Garcia, don't look," he said, but he was very thirsty, and his voice barely made a sound. He licked his lips and tried again, a third time, a fourth. He fell asleep saying the same words.

* * *

Prentiss found Morgan outside, his hands laced over his head.

"He's a tough kid," she said, even though she was worried, too. "And he's smart. He'll find a way to make it until we can get to him."

"He's like my little brother." Derek's hands slid downwards, now woven behind his neck. "After last time..."

"He'll be okay." She rubbed at his shoulder but he didn't relax.

"It should have been me." He shook his head. "Or you. Hotch. Anyone else. Out of all of us, he's the most... He's still.."

"I know." Prentiss started to pick at her nails again and this time, when she noticed, but didn't bother trying to stop herself.

They stood together on the curb for a long while, each trying not to picture what was probably happening on the monitors in Garcia's office, each failing.

* * *

Hotch tried to keep the story short and clean. Stick to the facts. Even so, he could see Rossi grow smaller with every word.

"He never told me," he said finally, his eyes somewhere beyond Hotch's shoulder. "I wouldn't ever have guessed."

"He didn't talk about it much to us, either." Hotch sighed. "He struggled, but he got over it."

"And now, three years later..." Rossi shook his head. "We've got to get him out of there, Aaron."

Hotch straightened, suddenly alert.

"Three years..." he turned on his desktop and began to search for a copy of the initial report in his archives. "Three years almost _exactly_."

"Coincidence?" Rossi's tone belied what they were both thinking.

* * *

15 minutes later everyone was gathered around the meeting table once again, save Garcia, who refused to leave her office.

"I know it's difficult, but we have to treat this like any other case." Hotch spoke carefully, watching Morgan's reaction in particular. "It's our best chance to get Reid back."

"You mean we're going to profile him." Morgan leaned back in his seat, his arms crossed, his posture distinctly hostile.

"And the unsub." Hotch pinned up a printout from the feed they'd seen earlier, where Michael was leaning into the camera. "We can't rule out the possibility that Michael is his real name, but since he associated with Raphael, it's more likely he's referencing the archangel."

"A zealot," Prentiss nodded. "He kept asking Reid his _name_ , like the priests in scary movies."

"He thinks Reid is a demon." JJ looked studiously at the table, avoiding the evidence board. "Us, too."

"Why the vacation?" Rossi broke in. "The Raphael stuff happened in 07. Why wait three years?"

"He could have been in prison," Prentiss tried, but Morgan shook his head.

"Look at the video. He doesn't give a damn if we see his face. We won't find him in the system."

"He could just be confident," JJ ventured. "You know, if the Lord is on his side and all that. Or he could have been in an institution. Hospital, even."

"Garcia's looking through federal databases now." Hotch was making notes on the whiteboard. _Prison? Mental ward?_ "We need to pinpoint the connection between him and Hankel. Let's look over our old lists of suspects and associates. Flag anyone that-"

"We didn't talk to this guy." Morgan waved his hand in irritation. "One of us would have recognized him."

As he was talking, Hotch had been pinning up more printouts. Reid's bedroom wall. A screenshot of the video showing some detail of the room behind. A photo of Tobias. "So it's someone we didn't talk to." Hotch was resolute. "But he had to have been surveilling Reid. I'll tell Garcia to pull up video from Reid's apartment lobby and the parking lot. Maybe-"

Morgan pushed his chair back, hard, and walked out. And on a video feed playing somewhere further down the hall, inaudible to the team, Reid began to scream.

* * *

He had been woken harshly; maybe an hour or two after drifting to sleep, his head was yanked back as a now-familiar hand snaked through his hair.

"You don't fool me," a voice whispered in his ear.

"Just let me go," Reid whispered back. The words sounded canned- a record of the last time he had said them, three years earlier. Only this time, there was no Tobias to listen. Only Michael.

"Not ready to confess?" The voice receded to the room somewhere behind him and Reid stared at the red light again. _Garcia, don't watch. Garcia, don't look. Garcia-_

He didn't even have time to process the pain before a scream had wrenched its way from somewhere deep in his chest. He couldn't see what was happening and the pieces came together slowly, like splicing cut film. Michael was in front of him. There was a tearing sound- skin? No, his sweater. He saw a flash of his own chest, pale and shiny with a desperate sweat.

Michael was holding something it was long it was dark it was red hot on the end _ohGodjesushelpmestopPLEASE-_

"-bear the mark of the Lord," Michael was saying, but his words were distant, like they were at the end of a tunnel. There was a terrible singed smell in the air and if he hadn't been screaming Reid would have gagged because he was smelling his own skin burn. Michael had backed away, careful to stay out of the way of the camcorder, and now Reid could see the cross-shaped brand which had faded to a dull orange. "Will you tell me your name?"

"Reid, Spencer... Spencer... I'm S-Spence..." He was sobbing now. The burst of agony had not lessened but instead had spread, blooming throughout his chest, radiating heat even though the brand was several feet away and by now cool. There was a fiery patch of red over his heart, and he could see the outlines of what would soon be a cross-shaped scar.

"We'll try again tomorrow," Michael said, retreating. The room was left empty, and silent save for the sound of Reid crying.


End file.
